


Up In Smoke

by The_Lowlifes_Back



Series: A Series of Doves and Serpants [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Dogmeat is a Good Boy, Drama & Romance, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Heavy Petting, Romance, Shameless, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lowlifes_Back/pseuds/The_Lowlifes_Back
Summary: Everything could be gone with the flip of a switch...His toes curl into the dirt, his fingers carding through the dog’s fur roughly, his voice hushed. “…feels like she’s been gone too long.”A world...A burnt out city of blazing sticks and battered cement, stands at her back in the distance.A life...Her voice feels cool against his bruised ego. “…Do you remember…when you got radiation poisoning for the first time?” His voice sends a chill against the nape of her neck. “Not really. It was a long time ago." She tells him a short sad story. “You died…twice.” She feels colder in her chest remembering.A friend...In the heat of the moment it all comes rushing out of him. “I’m scared that you won’t come back!” The weight of it settles the instant the words are spoken. His eyes flicker to the side and back to her face in a panic, his words stilted and hot. “…All the waiting! The not knowing! Like you don’t know how that feels?”the love of your life...His voice is a whisper, like thunder in the silence, ragged and crackling. “…I want you, to want me…” She’s breathing against his mouth, speaking quiet fire. “…you don’t have to worry about that.”
Relationships: Butch DeLoria/Female Lone Wanderer, Butch DeLoria/Lone Wanderer
Series: A Series of Doves and Serpants [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932970
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Up In Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: All I’m going to say is that I’m back. I miss writing and if anyone is kind enough to have my old works saved somewhere I would LOVE to have them back. I also just want to say, that this is the first story I’ve written in years and that there may be some continuity errors. If anyone finds them, please point them out to me, because I am lazy! XD And I will fix them later. I always come back to this fandom and read what people have decided to put Butch and their LW up to and it always excites me one way or the other. I’m not going to write anything big, because I doubt I have the patience to finish it and it feels cruel to write cliff hangers. …Which makes me a monster because my God have I given up on far too many stories. LOL. Thank you to anyone who knows me from before. Thank you to anyone new who ends up liking my work. Thank you to the people who have positive criticism and have helped me grow as a writer. I LOVE to write and I am humbly excited to share my stories with fellow Butch/LW shippers! And anyone else who just enjoys a good story! (I hope it’s good) XD  
> Ok. Long author’s note finished. On to disclaimers.  
> Disclamer: I do not own Fallout or anything in the franchise. I write fanfiction. For free. It’s fun. 

**Up In Smoke**

Burnt wood over a campfire smelled comforting to her. Smoke and heat, mingling together to form a scent which she’d never experienced in the vault. Unique in every way. A burnt out city of blazing sticks and battered cement, stands at her back in the distance. The darkness of a pitch black night, lit up orange by the hovels and the barricades currently burning away behind her.

She stops on a hill that should be classified as more of a large dirt pile, her shotgun held loosely at her side.

Red hot embers and grey smoke flying up and off into a blue black abyss, the sounds of dying men wailing like animals in the midst of a dilapidated cityscape, bid her farewell. The Lone Wanderer stops, staring at the violent glow, her boots dug heavily into the dirt. Her tongue darts out to lick at her chapped lips, her brow turning into a deep set scowl, as sweat drips into her lashes. Dirt, blood and ash, the taste is bitter in her mouth and familiar all the same, as it coats her grimy face. The abrupt sound of shifting sand and crumbling rocks, spikes her pulse.

Gun cocked, her lanky body jerks in the direction of the small cliff to her left. Her eyes catch the remnants of falling pebbles and sandy rock, her trigger finger itchy, her ears pricked up for any kind of sound. Her eyes struggling to make out any kind of figure. A feral, a mutie, a mutt, or a man? Her breath creates a fog, heatedly escaping out into the cool air.

She holds. She waits. The cries of the defeated are dying out over her shoulder, but as she glares at the rocks before her there’s nothing but silence. A breeze kicks up behind her, strong enough to have her soot infused hair, billowing out in front of her in every direction. The wind catches the sand, knocking loose more pebbles.

For every foul creature it could have been, she feels her body go lax. The only sound she could make out, was the wind. Her eyes fool her, catching orange embers in the air, even though the city is long gone in the distance. The Cliffside is jagged, uneven, but climbable, if she were inclined to do so. She lowers her gun, the skin on her hands black enough to match the fingerless gloves that are hiding multiple gun callouses.

She swears she hears the sand shifting again, chalks it up to the heavy breeze again. Her shoulders visibly relax and her legs begin to shake. She looks to her Pipboy to check the time. It’s later than she’d planned to be. Her eyes catch the HUD. There’s a single red-

“-BITCH!” She lurches forward just barely avoiding the flaming Shish-Ka-Bob, as it comes burning down behind her. The dirt crumbles under her and as she turns on her boot heels in a mad scramble, it’s a sheer miracle she’s able to keep her footing. She spares the screaming man an appraising eye, in her adrenaline induced state. A very large, monster of a survivor from the Slaver encampment.

Face still in the process of melting, flesh bubbling under a raging red and orange inferno atop what’s left of his right side, the smell of burnt hair overpowering in the fire, making her retch. He brandishes the flaming blade in a vice like grip, coming at her in a blind rage. VATS flickers to life and like a bat out of hell, she’s got her gun aimed at the flames. A pause, a breath, and an eternity, as she breathes out a sigh of relief. BANG!

A spectacular splattering of brain, blood, and fire. Free of his head, the burning man crumbles, while the Wanderer still stands. Stand there she does. Her legs shaking, her hands steady, a cough wracking her frame, her left fist catching the sound. Staring at the mangled mess of a human being guilt eats at her.

She wipes her ashy mouth with the back of her glove, the heaviness of her breath catching up with her, when exhaustion begins to set in. She jerks her gaze up to the path the Slaver and she had come from, waiting for another. Nobody else comes up the path. She looks at the mangled torso sprawled out before her, noticing the man’s weapon. Perfectly good salvage. 

Swallowing back her vomit, she’s holstering her shotgun at her back, knees giving way when she takes a shaky step. The dirt slope is not so forgiving a second time, as she comes crashing forward, palms spread out in the blood soaked sand. It doesn’t take long for her to retch again at the smell. The gore she could handle, but the smell of burnt hair? Her irritably long, dirty hair falls into her face, her eyes wide with shock, arching forward in a few dry heaves, inches away from where a man’s head used to occupy. 

A husky, pitchy swear fills the air. “Shit!” Cursing felt freeing to her. Pushing up from the dirt, on her knees, she throws her filthy hair out of her face, careful not to touch her brow with her bloody hands, she wipes the sweat away with her arm. Her knees are bruised, her old jeans ripped from many years of being used up. The Shish-Ka-Bob sits in the dead man’s vicelike grip.

Unable to let go, not even at the end. She’s on her feet, stumbling towards the weapon, reaching it and prying it out the body’s frozen fingers. It doesn’t come willingly at first, but she’s not a quitter. When she stumbles back up the incline, the temptation to look back at the mess behind her, tries to stop her at the very top of the hill. Shish-Ka-Bob strapped to her hip, she glances at her Pipboy instead.

She doesn’t look back and the smell of fire, doesn’t feel quite as comforting as it used to a few moments ago.

* * *

The crackling of a campfire and the clang of a stew pot, lulls him into a sense of security. A good rock to sit on and a clean enough river to wash off in, were home enough lately. The dark haired youth is lifting a bite of Molerat Stew out of the crockpot, blowing it off, practically drooling at the smell of Tatos and rice. He shoves it into his mouth hungrily, humming loudly at the taste. His jean clad legs are long enough to look cramped, sitting low to the ground like he is, his bare feet dug into the dirt.

A leather jacket is slung over the rocks beside him, his boots and socks neatly laid out by a set of sleeping bags to his left. Smacking his lips loudly, he looks down into the pot, when a whining creature catches his attention. Followed by a heavy weight on his thigh. Dropping the soup spoon into the pot, the man leans back, bringing one of his rather large hands up to rest between the ears of a very large Wolfhound. Laughter bubbles up out of him, his voice carrying out into the distance. “D’you mind? Huh, Dog?”

Grinning from ear to ear, the man’s eyes glinting in the firelight, he scratches behind the dogs ears heartily. The dog’s golden gaze seems to linger upon the man’s stubbly face, its tongue lolling out of its sizable maw goofily as if to say, “No! I don’t mind at all!” Still smiling, the man glances back at the stew. His face falls when the telltale signs of burnt Molerat, start to creep up into his nostrils. He’s picking up the spoon and stirring again diligently, swearing childishly. “Crap! Aw, Crap!” The brown and red concoction in the pot seems to calm itself, the stirring seemingly helping to evenly distribute the heat.

His eyes dart here and there, still being watched thoughtfully by the rather immense dog at his side. Between his sprawling legs rests a leather sack, filled with spices, food items, Fancy Lads, and a generous assortment of rations. With a free hand he rifles blindly through them, bringing his head lower to the pot to take a whiff. He inhales deeply, muttering under his breath thoughtfully. “…could use something with a little more… gusto... ” He looks to the Dog with a sideways glance, asking the creature as if it could truly answer him. “How about it, Boy? A dash of paprika sounding good to you?”

The creature’s tail begins to wag, shuffling sand behind him gently. The sound adds to the calm of the snapping firewood, as well as the simmering stew. The soup spoon gets dropped once again and the man’s actions appear to be a bit impatient, as he rolls his eyes, commenting on the meal. “Might take away that burnt smell…” He’s looking down at his companion speaking with exasperation. “You’re just sticking around for the free food, aren’t you, Mutt?” Without a word, the creature’s adoring gaze and panting doesn’t falter in the slightest.

With a thoughtful expression, the man’s shoulders seem to slump lower. He brings his hand up to rub at his own face lazily, wiping at his mouth with an open palm. He lingers on his jaw, grumbling out loud to the only friendly ear for miles around. “I’m going to start looking like you in a day or two if I don’t watch it!” The dog’s tongue finally finds itself slurping back up into its mouth for a moment, cocking its head to the side, as if to say, “What’s wrong with that?” The man’s looking at the fire beneath the pot, two straight dark brows furrowing in search of a stick to poke the flames with.

When he manages to come across a decent one, a string of complaints follows in the wake of him stirring up the embers. _“_ Tch, how dangerous could it be if she went out without us?” He sighs pensively, his eyes looking off into the fog of darkness, which the light of the fire seems to pierce. The shadows at his periphery dance like ink on a blank canvas. His toes curl into the dirt, his fingers carding through the dog’s coarse fur roughly, his voice hushed. “…feels like she’s been gone too long.” The animal is docile against his thigh, till with a sharp jerk of it’s massive head, the dog’s eyes lock onto something obscured far off into the darkness.

It leaves the man’s eyes following the dog’s, tossing the singed stick aside, abruptly on his feet, whispering to the creature, responding to the animal’s behavior keenly. “What? What is it, Boy?” The man’s black brows furrow, his eyes squinting to will his sight to work against the dancing shadows beyond the campsite. The dog’s folded ears are perked up in alertness, its body still as a statue, while the man’s voice drips tension. “Yeah, you see something alright.” The man’s neck jerks towards his right, spotting his gun, fully loaded, custom made, ready to fire. His toes wiggle in the dirt, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

He’s about to speak up again, when the dog bolts. Dirt and rocks fly up and crack into the Cliffside at their backs, claws and paws barreling off into the darkness. Without hesitation, the man turns and takes up his 44., flicking off the safety with his thumb, knocking over the bag which had been resting between his legs in the process. The tendons in his arms flex tightly while he takes aim blindly, the sound of plastic and spices spilling behind him, accompanies the conspicuous sound of the fire. The dog is far ahead and already vanished into the dark, leaving the man to stalk after him, both hands on his weapon.

He takes a few long strides, till he’s nearing the edge of where the light meets the dark. He goes to look at his Pipboy, finding bare skin instead. His teeth bite into his lower lip, pausing at the edge of camp, lowering his gun. He shakes his head, his expression filling with uncertain resolve, talking to himself in quiet tones. “Alright, alright you got this, Butch. No Pipboy? Who needs it? No light and no boots? Screw it. Tunnel Snakes, rule.” Taking another step, till the campfire is a good 20 feet away, something sharp and pointy comes into contact with his barefoot.

He stumbles predictably. Immediately, the injured foot comes right back off the ground with a loud, “Ouch!” breaking the silence. The sound echoes far off into in the night, the man hopping a little to avoid putting pressure on his injured foot. There’s still a bit of campfire light at this point, enough to have him awkwardly bending his ankle to try to get a look at the bottom of his right foot. The sound of a dog barking, has him jumping from the shock and once again his magnum’s aimed blindly in the darkness.

Pitch black, no moon. A breeze blows his off-white t-shirt up, exposing his stomach and chest to a chill. He shivers, listening intently, putting most of his weight on his left leg. He hears the dog again, this time yipping instead of barking. When a familiar feminine voice follows it, his whole frame seems to unwind from its combat ready tightness. “Hey, Dogmeat! Who’s a good boy? I know, I know I missed you too, buddy!”

He drops his aim, shaking his head, a scowl on his face, gesturing with his hands, complaining to himself. “One heart attack after the other with this chick! All the time, when does it end?!” A thought occurs to him, which has him limping speedily back to camp, exclaiming loudly. “MY STEW!” followed by a rapidly strung together collection of swears. His feet catch more than one sharp pebble along the way, as he hops from one foot to the other looking a bit ridiculous. He is rather agile for such a tall, if not burly man.

He slides onto his knees beside the smoking stew pot, dropping his gun beside him, before picking the soup spoon up again, and frantically stirring. A few minutes go by, when low and behold, Dogmeat comes trotting up beside him. Butch looks up in time to catch sight of the girl who he grew up with. At least that’s what he expected to see. Instead, what greeted him was a dirty hobo with black soot all over her from head to toe.

Laughing just seemed like the only option. Laughter, rich and boisterous, bubbled up out of him like the simmering stew. “Get a load of you!” There she stood, bloody knees, bloody hands, blonde hair turned ashy grey black to match all the ash, on whatever skin wasn’t covered by clothing. She wasn’t smiling either, which just seemed to make him laugh harder. He drops the soup spoon and falls back on his hands, snickering to himself.

A grin starts spreading across her mouth. Her lips so chapped they seem to crack under the strain, her voice rough, but gentle. “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you. What the hell were you doing? Hopping back to camp barefoot?” His laughter stops short, his face flushing at being caught in a compromising situation. He crosses his legs, shrugging up at her, watching her get closer, noticing her scraped knees. “I uh, well... I might have forgot my boots getting up.” She gives him a funny look that leaves him rolling his eyes up at her, crossing his arms. “Oh what? Like you’ve never forgotten to put your boots back on before!”

She’s making her way over to her sleeping bag, unbuckling her belt along the way, speaking to him teasingly. “How is it you’re still alive again? It’s got to be luck.” He scoffs, uncrossing his arms and looking back to the stew again. “Like you’re one to talk, Angie. Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” She’s pulled her belt free of its loops, close enough to toss it onto the nearest sleeping bag. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, looking back to his spice sack. The contents are mostly spilled out, among them a bundle of bandages and herb poultices.

He changes the subject without thinking too much about it. “You doing ok?” She’s taken off her holster, her shotgun, the new Shish-Ka-Bob, answering him. “You should have seen the other guy…” He looks up and finds her standing a few feet away from him, over by the sleeping bags. A breeze blows through, blowing the embers of the fire off into the air. It also blows the very big stench coming off of the small blonde directly into his open mouth.

He chokes on it, his eyes watering, and one of his hands comes up to instinctively cover his nose. “ _Woah,_ no. Is…is that **you**?” She’d been leaning down to untie her boots, till she heard his tone. She looks up from her beat up leather work boots, glancing at him as she talks. “I’ll wash up in the river tomorrow.” He shakes his head, taking up the soup spoon again to stir. “You expect me to sleep next to you like that? I sure **hope** not.” She laughs derisively, falling on her rear end into the dirt, kicking off her boots and noticing the terrible condition of her gloves. “Is it too much for your delicate nose, _princess_?”

She tears her gloves off and tosses the into the fire, annoyed.

He’s whipping the soup spoon out of the pot and waving it at her, getting irritated. “Either you are walking into it tonight or **I’m** gonna throw you in!” Bits of stew flick off the spoon into the dirt, which Dogmeat waddles over to lick up happily. Butch shrugs his shoulders, going back to stirring with a halfhearted note of worry. “…you’d think I wouldn’t have to talk you into it.” A heavy thump indicates her tossing her boots beside his. She’s staring at her hands with a contemplative look, voice softer than it was before. “Well, I’m happy you’re here to talk me into things.”

He’s on his feet, looking down at her much smaller form, sitting cross legged at the foot of their sleeping bags. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, muttering at her gently. “…then don’t leave me behind, next time.” Dogmeat takes the chance to wander up beside her, licking her cheek sloppily. She smiles quietly, pulling Dogmeat closer, a bit at a loss for words. She runs her fingers through the coarse, grey fur, her eyes falling closed, her body sagging against her companion for support.

Her voice is full of exhausted leisure. “Mirelurks are nocturnal…” she rests her head on Dogmeat’s shoulder, turning her face up at her other much less furry companion. He’s lifting the soup spoon to his lips and tasting the fruits of his labor. A look of satisfaction covers his face and without looking he’s putting his foot down. “No bath, no stew, Little Girl.” She groans, petulant, his name being moaned with childlike rebellion. “Butch! I’m exhausted! Come on-“

He’s laughing at her, while going off to fetch an oven mitt out of his leather bag. “-If you’re that scared, I’ll come with you.” Mocking her without remorse. “You smell so bad, that I’m pretty sure anything would lose its appetite.” She’s growling at him, her hands seemingly petting Dogmeat a little more roughly. The dog “wuffs” low and bothered, shakes against her, before trotting out of her embrace. Her head slumps forward, grumbling with her face in her hands. “Do you ever stop talking, Deloria?”

She’s rubbing her eyes with her palms, watching Dogmeat being offered a bowl of stew before her. She mutters “Traitor…” halfheartedly, watching her beloved pet slurping soup from a chipped blue bowl. The red concoction drips into the dirt, red on beige, Butch’s hand ruffling the ears of their large furry monster. The sight brings a smile to her mouth that seems to soften her features. Butch leaning down, grinning, and petting her dog, is a sight that chases away all the other more bloody ones she’s had that night.

Feeling her eyes on him, he catches her watching him with a playful grin. “Don’t act like you don’t love me. Not that I can hold it against you. I’m downright awesome! Chicks just can’t help falling for me.” She’s not necessarily flustered, since she’s used to him talking like that to her. She blames the heat of the flames for the burn in her face, unable not to smile back him. A sharp quip on her tongue, comes easy. “I could name several people who hate you. Belle Bonnie for one.” He stands to his full height of 6’1” and shrugs, hands on his hips. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t talking about **her** , I was talkin’ about you.”

His grin falls a bit, uncertainty wafting off of him and making her tongue tied. “Y-yeah? Well, cut it out. I’m not in the mood.” She can’t look at him, turning her eyes to the fire, and the black iron stew pot sitting on a rock beside it. She feels his eyes burning on the side of her head. Staring. She hears him walking over to her, his feet making patting sounds in the dirt.

She’s smiling again, teasing him. “You’re the one who just can’t help following me around, Deloria.” He sits down on the ground beside her with a rather undignified “oof”, bumping her shoulder with his own much broader one, talking back. “Oh please. You’d be lost without me! A total wreck! Admit it, Baby-doll, you’d be bored without me.” She pulls her knees up into her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and nudging him back gently. “Bet you were bored tonight. Miss me?” She’s snickering as she says it, but when he reaches for his boots, he surprises her sounding as serious as he does. “I always miss you whenever you’re not around…” She turns to look at him, watching him with a calculating gaze. 

The fire’s still alive and kicking, casting shadows on his handsome face. Shadows under his dark blue eyes, that glow in the light and a shadow across his jaw, where he’s sporting a 5’oclock shadow. His t-shirt sleeves are rolled up when they weren’t before, exposing the curves of his biceps, solid and strong. His hands are working to pull on his old white, patched up socks, brushing her arm casually with every movement. As if to unconsciously remind her that he’s there if she wants to lean on him.

She’s relaxed in a way that only he can make her be. He catches her watching him and something about his expression, has her heart thumping faster. His boots are tied, but he’s just sitting there, staring back at her. What she doesn’t know is that when he looks at her, his chest feels tighter every time. He leans back on his hands, unconsciously leaning into her when he expresses himself heatedly. “…so next time take me with you. Maybe you won’t get so much blood on your hands. Get me?”

She startles, glancing at her palms. Sure enough, they’re still caked with dried blood despite her burned up gloves and she’s not so reluctant to jump in the river anymore. She sighs and before she can speak up, he’s thrown her boots into her lap lazily and getting to his feet. When he walks off to start putting his ration bag back together, she takes that as the end of their conversation. She shakes her head at him, slipping her boots back on, watching him work with an odd sense of pride.

Then just when she’s about to get up, he’s glided over to her and hauling her up by the arm. She splutters in mock outrage, “A uhm? Watch it with the manhandling!” He’s grinning and talking animatedly, throwing his arm around her shoulders weightily, dragging her off towards the river. “Hey, hey, not my fault you’re still so tiny! I’m woman-handling or whatever, you know? Gently.” Waggling his eyebrows, they’re in the firelight just enough for her to make out the raunchy leer he’s tossing at her. “I’ll be real **gentle** with you if you want…”

He can sweep her up in a whirlwind of emotions without much effort. She’s shoving him off, rolling her eyes, effected when she wishes she wasn’t, using her words to push him away as well. “You stink, Butch! Quit _touching_ me before it rubs off on me.” She trots ahead of him into the dark, only for him to catch up and elbow her laughing with that all too charming snort of his. “What’re you being all shy for, Blondie?” His laugh is contagious and has her pushing him back, Dogmeat and the fire falling behind them. “Shut up, Butch!” She’s laughing too and it feels right.

He stops dead in his tracks and she’s stopping to ask what the holdup is. But he’s talking too fast and running back to camp even faster. “Awe, wait! Hold on! I got something important to get!” His hands are up and his back is to her, while she watches him sprint back to camp. The absence of the snake between his shoulder blades, fills her heart with something anxious. Even with her latest fiery bloodbath, she kept a cool head.

Watching him, all long legs and perfect hair, bolting away from her, is a sight that fills her with unease for all kinds of reasons. Reasons she wants to avoid thinking about. At that, she turns away from the sight of him and into the dark. She takes a breath and steps forward. He’ll catch up.

She has a fleeting thought of the slaver encampment, the embers, and the blue black abyss called the sky. Everything could be gone with the flip of a switch. A world. A life. A friend.

Love hurts the most to lose and by God, she didn’t want to even have it if it came to that.

It was safer not to think about.

* * *

The lack of moonlight is severe in the absence of the firelight. They’d pitched camp inside a crescent shaped valley, the only entrance being the one she’d come in from. Not only did the dust bowl hide the firelight in its low valley, but the “kill funnel” of an entry was a good advantage on the would-be thief. There was a river running down the side of the valley, with a steep waterfall, and an old ruined house without any intact walls. If they hadn’t caught the sight of a Mirelurk’s shell near the falls earlier in their 3 days of camping, she might have suggested they use that old shack’s foundation for their site.

The glow from their Pipboy’s would have been bright enough, even before the two of them had upgraded them significantly. Butch was a lot cleverer with computers than you would think at first glance, so both of their Pipboy’s were customized in tiny personal ways. Walking beside him in that Vault-Tec green glow, reminded her of when they’d gotten stuck together behind an old INACCESSIBLE door. It was too dark to see without that green glow and they’d been unwilling to talk to each other. Now, it wasn’t really a hostile silence but an easy one, interrupted by Butch’s pleasant melodic humming.

Butch had gone out of his way to collect a few things, before catching up to her. He’d strapped on his Pipboy and collected a different bag, made of green canvas instead of leather. He’d informed her that he’d brought her a change of clothes by saying, “ _Thanks for making sure I don’t smell like a burning pile of garbage, Butch!”_ in a poor impression of her. She’d looked inside the open bag he was showing her and smiled. He answered his own question looking her dead in the eye and nodding. “Well, you’re real welcome, Evangeline! Golly, I just live to please! Shine your boots for you? Take a bullet for you?”

Moments like these where he’d make her laugh and she’d call him a goofball, were what made life out here seem less terrible. They arrive at the edge of the river and for a moment, she just stands there fiddling with the button on her jeans. Butch seems to be oblivious to her for the moment, setting the canvas bag down, pulling out a few bottles, as well as one of his older white t-shirts and a pair of loose fabric pants for her to slip into. She’d had a feeling that they’d been together for so long, that he’d be wearing her clothes too if they would fit him. 2 years and they seemed to share everything with each other, be it a drink or a crazy scheme.

Laughter, tears, memories, and affection. She’s tugging her ratty, burnt shirt over her head and hears Butch commenting with her back to him. “I’d tell you to burn those, but well, what’d be the point right?” She’s looking at him over her shoulder and he’s already whipped his own shirt off of his body like it’s nothing. If her eyes weren’t wandering over his muscular frame, it very well would have been nothing to her. She’s saying something without thinking first. “Did you always look so…big?”

His head shoots up from where he’d been sitting and calibrating something on his Pipboy. Speechless, he stutters at her. “What…what do you mean…?” She’s tossed her shirt aside, standing in an ancient sports bra, dragging her wandering eyes and burning face back to the river. This feels… awkward and comfortable all at once. She’s trying not to sound too sweet and falling all over herself, regrettably. “You-you look stronger. That’s all… like you’ve been training more than usual.”

In her mind all she can think is, ‘ _Stop talking. Please do yourself a favor and never speak again.’_ And his lack of a reply after that, is that much more daunting, as she clumsily shakes off her loosely tied boots. Whether it’s her thoughts or her sleep deprived body, she’s tripping over to the left and shocked when she bumps into a strong, hot wall of muscle. She was ready to fall over, till two rough hands catch her by the bare skin of her shoulders to steady her. When she’s leaning back to look up at him, she’s still weak in the knees and for an entirely different reason.

His Pipboy’s glowing and making his eyes dance, like trouble is on his mind. She’s looking at his mouth too much when he talks and he’s so warm, she can feel his skin just by standing too close. “…maybe I have…what’s it to ya?” Her hands are dangling limply at her sides and she feels her lips part without her permission. She wonders to herself if he’d always looked this handsome. Begrudgingly yes, but lately it’s been his heart that’s been the most beautiful thing about him.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, his expression tense, curious. She’s the first to look away, making the mistake of looking at his chest, her eyes mapping out his collarbones and the very noticeable size of his arms. She wishes she didn’t sound so breathless, but he was standing too close and it was too dark and she was too naked already. “What if I like that?” His hands squeeze her a little tighter for a moment, his fingers trembling, and when she looks up at him again, he looks… intense. His voice is husky and there’s something new, dangerous about it. “You can do more than look if you’re staring that hard…”

He’s never truly been someone she’d be afraid of, but when his palms form over her shoulders, dwarfing them with their size, goosebumps form on her lightly tanned flesh. She inhales sharply, at the way his eyes fall below her collarbone and back up to hers. She’s got her hands on his chest and it takes her a moment to convince herself to push him away. What she was afraid of wasn’t what he was offering. She was terrified of only one thing and that was the loss that would follow his imminent demise.

People died around her one way or the other.

His chest flexes underneath her careful touch, as she lingers there. His face is full of questions, anxiousness, and hunger. She can only wonder how they’ve held out this long and yet, there’s a part of her still holding back. Fear wasn’t something she was used to, but this was a fear that had never left her. Through all the death, the blood, and the Wastes, failing to protect the ones she loved, was a deep seeded horror that she suspected would be with her till her dying day.

The heat of his skin is pleasant, welcoming under her hands and blanketing her shoulders. When she pushes, he doesn’t budge an inch, her voice stronger, still betraying too much. “Quit talking sweet, Deloria.” She takes a step back, shoving him just a little bit and with a rather forlorn look on his face he lets her go. Something painful tries to sink into his expression, but he seems to catch it. Whether he’s forcing it or not, he’s grinning at her, like he knows a secret that’s already open and known to them both. “…You started it.”

There he goes, tugging on her heart and to see him with that dejection peeking out of his eyes, hurts her. So she turns on her heel and unbuttons the scuffed metal button on her jeans, unable to look at him. If she does, she might cross a line that’s still yet to be crossed. Sincere as she ever was, her heart pours out for him in her words. “I just… I’m proud of you…for growing up so well, Butch.” She slides her jeans off with a grunt and shrugging, she tries to make her voice lighthearted, but it just sounds shaky to her. “You’re a-a good man. Who’d have saw that coming?”

Whatever answer he’d been wanting or expecting, that was certainly not it. If only she knew how those words touched his soul. Her skin was softer than anything he’d ever laid his hands on, even covered in the dirt. Something about her drew people in and he wasn’t any better. Even in the vault he’d damn near done backflips just trying to get her to pay attention to him.

He’s not shy about wanting her. He’s a little unsure, but that’s only because of her own lack of initiative. She’s unbuckling her Pipboy and her bare legs are so long and pretty, that it’s making him ache. He says what’s on his mind, without really speaking at all. “…good? Me? Nah… your eyesight’s just terrible! All that dim vault lighting must have blinded you or something.” He counts a few scars on her back, as she drops her Pipboy beside her boots.

He’s standing there staring at the dirt now, guilty for something he didn’t even do. He’s toeing his boots off and unbuttoning his own loose thread bare jeans, talking big. “Now, am I the biggest, baddest, Tunnel Snake this Wasteland’s ever seen? Tougher than anybody? Oh, hell yeah! That I could own up to.” He hopes his own self-doubt isn’t too obvious, when he scoffs and shivers in the night air, standing in his old blue Vault-tec skivvies. “Good’s more your thing anyway, doll.” He crosses his arms, watching her toeing the water, scowling that she seems to be fine with the chill in the air. He’s toeing the bare dirt and letting lose with his own personal outrage. “What are you? A friggin’ ice cube? Aren’t you cold?”

He can hear her smiling, making fun of him. “Big baby.” His jaw drops at her nerve. Goosebumps are all over him and it’s been really windy all night. A mean grin fills his heart and he takes one quiet step toward her. Then another.

Successfully, he’s managed to sneak up behind her. He’s staring down at her, a shyness fluttering into his chest over how thin and pretty the nape of her neck is. He wants to push her in, get rid of that mocking grin she’s got inside her. Something has him pausing there, wondering if she really can’t tell if he’s behind her. He tests that thought out, by putting his palm flat between her shoulder blades and giving her a very generous push into the water.

The way her arms flail, her body twitching, and her shocked scream, give him an answer. He honestly hadn’t thought she wouldn’t catch him in the act. There’s a strange pang at the thought, that she’s dropped her guard around him so much that he can actually get the better of her, like when they were kids. She falls face first into the shallows of the riverbank, making a huge and satisfying splash. She’s coming up spluttering, coughing and laughing at him, the sound sweeter than usual. “Oh, you dick!”

He takes a step into the shallows next to her, his cheeks hurting from how big his smile is. What he didn’t account for, was how fast she was and how with a swipe of her leg, she could have him ass first beside her. That is exactly what happened too. One moment he’s ready to celebrate at how stealthy he’s become and the next she’s got him on his ass, yelping loudly. Then there they are, side by side in waist deep water, just smiling at each other.

Her hair is matted, knotted, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d gotten it singed or burnt off in places. Her teeth are pearly white from years of good vault life hygiene and the whites of her eyes are incandescent in the green glow of his Pipboy. Then he sees the way her breasts are held so tightly under the grey fabric of her bra and his smile falls, because she’s **cold**. She’s still giggling at him, when, with a sour expression, he splashes her right in her stupid pretty face. Her shock makes him snicker and that only spurs her on to leap onto him, shoving his head beneath the water without warning.

More of a dunking really than anything, but needless to say, he can no longer see or do much of anything, other than choke on water. Her voice is clear as a bell, playful. “Can’t decide if you look more like a sea snake or a drowned yao-guai.” He gets his bearings enough to feel her plush thighs around his waist and to form a rebuttal. “Cheap shot!” He’s rubbing the water out of his eyes and shaking the water out of his hair, trying to be as messy as possible. Her fingers are gripping at his shoulders and then he becomes all too aware of how small… of how soft she is.

He’s sitting up on his palms, his Pipboy’s light submerged in the water, but it’s bright enough to still be able to cast a significant glow. His bangs are in his eyes and his natural curls are showing, his hair dripping wet. She’s laughing at him, but all he can think about, even with the smell of burnt hair and the ash on her face, is that there’s no one who’s prettier than her. All blue eyed and buxom, her laughter seems to quiet down into a warm and feminine smile. He can’t smile at all, because there’s nothing funny about the moment to him anymore.

He wants to steal that smile.

She finds the way his hair’s begun to curl slightly at the edges, sinful. His expression blank or maybe star-struck is a better word. She’s not sure when the look in his eyes turns heated again, but when he’s abruptly got his face inches away from hers, all she can do is gasp in surprise. Then there they are and there’s not a mirelurk in sight. It’s as if time has forgotten to move and made the moment entirely theirs.

She can taste his breath, something sweet and maybe even the savory flavor of the stew he’d been working on all day. Her fingers clench on their own and she is painfully reminded, that he’s got broad shoulders. He could probably lift her clean over his head now if he wanted to. His skin is smooth and growing warmer under her hands. She’s sitting in his lap now and even though his hands aren’t on her, the way he’s looking at her mouth is just as seductive.

Intimate.

Never has a word felt quite so provocative as the word “intimate” did in her mind at that moment. They’ve been very close for a very long time. All they’ve got left of home really or what used to be home. She’d go as far to say, that he was the only home she had left. What has her so twisted up, is that the feeling is mutual.

He cooks for them both and she barter’s for things like Brahmin Butter or Honey. She’s taught him workarounds for different types of programs on the different terminal operating systems and he’s taught her how to sew the tightest stitches she’s ever seen, helping her with flesh wounds. For 2 years they’ve been partners, best friends, and knew things that nobody else would ever know about the other. They helped each other and built on one another and be it in conversation or in their everyday routine, they were **very close**. She feels his stomach flexing where she’s got her weight on him, heat rushing between her thighs without her permission.

The water’s warmer now that they’ve been sitting in it for a few minutes. Staring at each other. She catches his pulse fluttering beside her wrist and nothing could fool her into thinking that he was in control. She had to be or else… when his eyes turn up and catch hers, there’s no reason in them. There’s only the open secret between them, bleeding into her brain.

An open wound. An invitation. More than a feeling. A promise. She startles when he takes a deep breath only to let it out ever so slowly.

She’s the first to speak and it’s not really what she had wanted to say. “…Butch…?” She watches his Adam’s apple bob pleasantly, his tongue flicking out between his lips, stilting her heartbeat. He’s leaning away, only to bring a hand up and back through his sopping wet hair, leaving his hand there on the back of his head like he’s losing his mind. She’s entranced, because damn it if he didn’t look good. He looked like a warm cup of something she could lick up and be addicted to for the rest of her life.

Maybe life was too short?

The water’s dripping down his body, disappearing below the surface of the water, and she’s following the streams with her eyes. No longer trying to hide the fact that she is **looking**. He said she could touch right? As if her hands have a hidden agenda, she’s smoothing a palm up the strong column of his neck, strength, life and heat greeting her skin. She knows her reasons for being cautious and they are good ones.

But 2 long years of this electrically charged attraction they’ve had between them, tends to tear at all her good reason. She can tell, that he’s as astonished as she is by her roving touch. First her palm’s at the side of his neck, then it’s her fingertips lightly grazing the shell of his ear. His eyes widen like he’s afraid of her, but when they flutter shut, she knows that there’s too much vulnerability showing, for him not to trust her implicitly. When the hand that he’s had tangled in his hair, finds itself diving under the waters to grip at her hip, she understands that there’s a desperation inside him, that’s threatening to come out.

The sound of his voice is rough, burning her with a warning that has her fingers trembling against his jaw. “…What’re you doing, Angel?” She’s not really sure herself, but it doesn’t feel wrong. Worse. It feels like she should have been sitting in his lap a lot sooner. There’s something about the moonless night, that’s got her resolve slipping and it’s not what she’d have expected it to be.

The very thing that’s been keeping her from touching him like this, is what’s starting to convince her that she should.

Everything could be gone with the flip of a switch. A world. A life. A best friend. …the love of your life.

Everything you ever loved or needed. Gone. Lost. Burned. Up in smoke.

Instead of making up her mind, she’s whispering to him enjoying his fingers curled tightly around her hip. “Touching you.” His fingers squeeze her, a thick swallow showing her his thoughts. He’s not nearly as brave as he tries to make her think, a nervous laugh seems to cement that. “Yeah. I know… but why?” She smiles, because he makes her want to, and because his jaw is a lot rougher than it should be. Ignoring him, she’s got her thumb on his chin, stroking it and commenting absently. “You need a shave…”

He needed to stop asking questions. Even he thought so. When she locks eyes with him, he realizes with an embarrassing throbbing interest beneath the rippling waters, that she’s been staring at his mouth too. Her eyes are sparkling like blue gemstones in an old jewelry store and he’s feeling like he’s /about ready to snap. A walking heart attack.

That’s what she was. An ache in his chest, a pain in his ass, a nag in his ear. This wasn’t just flirting or wishful thinking on his part and something about her had changed in an instant. His inner thoughts are leaving him hotly, like he’s halfway pissed off about it and the majority of him has just been pent up like an animal in a cage. “You’re a walking heart attack, you know that?” Still, her tender hand is playing with his 5’ o clock shadow and tying him up into knots. His stomach flips around like a collection of gears tumbling out of an old machine, at her intense inspection of his face.

The sound of acknowledgment she makes, is dark and quiet in his ears, her eyes blatantly flickering from his mouth to his own wild glare. “Hm…” She nods at him and swipes the pad of her thump across his bottom lip. The smell of smoke and dirt, still permeates her flesh, but her fingers are chasing the thought of it far away. When she leans closer, he’s still not expecting it. In fact, even when she presses her soft, chapped lips against his and her hand has dragged down to cradle his jaw, his mind is utterly blank.

By the time his eyes flutter shut, she’s pulling away and there he is chasing after her, like always. He doesn’t even realize he was leaning after her, till it’s too late and he’s left there unable to deny, what she probably already knows. He can’t stop himself from running after her, wanting her, needing her. He opens his eyes to find hers are still shut tightly. When she finally opens them to look at him, his hand has migrated from her hip and found the back of her neck deftly.

Whatever she’d been about to say, gets caught against his mouth. He’s kissed a few girls before…by a few he meant Susie Mack, Trinnie, Christine one forever and a stupid spin the bottle ago, and now, the last one. His own instinctive ideas scare the hell out of him, have him licking at her lower lip wickedly, wetting it with his tongue. A dip of his tongue, that’s all, just a tease is enough for her to wrap her arms around his shoulders and tug him into her without reservations. He moans short and hot, his other hand no longer supporting his weight on the riverbed and instead, has splayed out over the small of her back like he’s staking a claim.

Clutching at her, pulling, wanting, his fingers press into her flesh without hesitating and it makes her heart flutter, because it’s like he’s trying to consume her. He is hot-blooded in every way imaginable and his skin personifies it. His chest is hard in contrast to her own, sturdy and reliable. His hands are gentle, affectionate in contrast to how rough he used to be towards her when they were children. Two Wastelander’s sit in a quiet ink black river’s flow, captured in each other’s embrace, basking in a Vault Tec Pipboy’s eerie green glow, lost in a kiss that’s felt long past due.

The sound of claws and paws tearing up the sand on the riverbank, would have been enough to break the two apart as it was, but when a giant splash goes off behind them, its fight or flight. She’s the one who’s first to react to the danger, bolting up and away, only to be greeted by a very different kind of sloppy wet kiss. From a soaking wet dog, loveable and poorly timed. Butch’s laughter startles her even more, sounding just as pleasantly warm as it always is. “It’s just Dogmeat! Take it easy!” She’s breathing hot and heavy from more than just the adrenaline rush.

The whole outburst is just…utterly ridiculous. Whether its hysteria or genuine joy, she can’t tell anymore, as she looks at the man she’s still straddling and starts giggling. Dogmeat takes this reaction, as the perfect moment to gift Butch with a kiss of his own animal kind. Which forces Butch to let go of her, in order to fight off the loving assault of a very huge wolfhound, his breathy voice, turning her insides into jelly. “Damn it, dog! Awe, come on! Geez, go somewhere else! Go! Get lost!” Their furry friend yips a few times with affection, before taking off deeper into the river for a good swim.

Then there they are. Both of them short of breath and it seems to dawn on them at the same time, that something has changed between them. She gives him a flustered look and gets to her feet a little too quickly for his liking. So fast it’s got him catching her wrist, feeling a little panicked, the emotion leaking into his voice, much to his dismay. “W-Wait a minute ok?” There she is caught again, standing over him, the wind catching her hair and knocking sand out of it.

She looks like a wild mythical beast, her blackened hair dancing like its alive and her expression is secretive. His fingers loosen their grip, but she doesn’t pull her delicate wrist away. She doesn’t create distance. She doesn’t say a word either, but damn it if he doesn’t feel really small compared to her all of a sudden. A smile forms on her mouth, gentle and kind.

She thinks he looks good wet and pleading. She clasps his warm wet hand between both of hers and grips it tightly. Though she’s only 5’5”, lanky, and small, she’s got enough muscle to carry him if she really wanted to. So she’s pulling him up smoothly, leaning back to counter his weight and he’s rising to his feet, the sound of water flowing freely in the background. When he’s on his feet, he doesn’t let go of her hand and the expression on his face looks a little severe.

Dogmeat’s jumping in the shallows chasing after fish, loud enough to make them look over. While she’s staring over her shoulder at the happy display, Butch’s breath ghosts over her skin, his voice low in her ear, sounding much more heart stopping with his calloused hand in her own. “I’m sick of just looking at you too.” When he tugs her against him, it’s jarring when it shouldn’t be. Somehow it’s a lot worse outside of the water, because every warm, muscled inch of him is against her, caging her close within his arms and exciting her imagination. Her hands are pressed firmly against his chest, his arms, the strength in them immense as they cradle her at her sides, large enough to wrap around her entire frame effortlessly.

He knocks the breath right out of her, when one of his hands drags up her spine. They’ve never touched like this before. It’s slow and charged all at once. His hands more pleasurable than they should be, when he boldly explores her upper and lower backbone. Enough to make her speak up, while leaning in closer, drawn in by one of his hands now curled around the nape of her neck. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

He doesn’t say anything at first, but when he fits his chin atop her head and doesn’t let go, the silence only seems to drive her pulse higher. It tastes like a lie to him when it leaves his lips. “Of course I do…” She answers for him, laughing. “Touching me?” She feels the hand on her lower back glide up and back to its original resting place, full of uncharacteristic tenderness. The intent behind the motion leaves her giving into the feeling, embracing him with shaking hands and trembling arms.

He’s not doing anything dirty, in fact she’s tempted to beat him to it. His voice has something sweet hidden in the laughter of it. “Yeah. Wow, you’re really smart, huh?” Tucked under his chin, there’s a peace she hasn’t experienced before. She’s breathless talking pointlessly, her mind melted out of her ears. “Someone has to be…” She rests her cheek against him, forgetting what it was like to be held.

She hadn’t been held like this since she was a child. Safe. She felt warm, safe, and his hands were telling her that she was loved. She’s reminded of something he’d been joking about earlier, but the realization that he wasn’t lying, is deadly unfunny to her. “…you’ve got kind hands.” She feels him tense up, his body responding to hers in magnificent and humiliating ways.

His thumb starts rolling circles against the juncture of her jaw, his words full of smoke and fire. “You’ve got no idea what I’m gonna do with ‘em…” She’s laughing and holding him tighter, pushing her luck. “If you’re gentle I might let you one day.” He grunts with disappointment, but doesn’t try to fight her. When she finally slips away just a little, he’s caught the back of her head and pulled her closer, once again sharing the air of the cool night between them. She can taste the manly cunning behind his pleading voice. “How about tonight…is tonight good?”

Her heart pounds, his fingers heavy around her waist and his eyes searching for the yes, which they’ve both been begging for. He looks… wonderfully sweet on her. Tortured even. She can’t help laughing and what’s worse is, that she can’t stop herself from loving him. “You know I didn’t plan on doing **anything** with you tonight.” Still staring at her hotly, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Accidents happen. Are you calling this an accident?”

She’s not sure. She wants to say yes and no, but the answer is no. It’s not. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to touch him.

She swallows thickly, seeing the doubt in his eyes. Her voice is softer than it’s ever been. “No.” She’s whispering and it’s hard to look at him, when he’s got that foreign want on his face. “…I wanted to. I didn’t just trip and fall, Deloria.” His hands are steadying, his eyes darken even though his expression is becoming more and more sweet. “Oh good. I’d hate for you to chip your teeth.” He’s funny, so she laughs rich and dark at him. “I can’t stand you.”

But the words come out sounding a lot like, _“I love you.”_ And he seems to pick up on that. He’s huffing at her in disbelief, without thinking about what he’s saying again. “You can’t get enough of me. Admit it.” She’s staring at his mouth as she’s been doing for what seems the entire time, her hands finding his face and his eyes are full of quiet storms. Surrender is not something that comes easy, especially with him, but with near silent words, he tastes the victory. “If I do will you let me go?” It’s clear that he didn’t expect her to give in so easily, because it truly shocks him.

Makes him gasp even, his fingers tighten on her skin, his voice cracking, full of sudden weakness. “Not even if you begged me to.” She laughs, because of course he wouldn’t. When he kisses her, she’s caught off guard by him. His tongue is quick to tease at her mouth, her lips now wet from the water and his boldness. Now that she’d opened this door there wouldn’t be any closing it.

So instead, she kisses him back for a brief moment, stroking his cheekbones with her thumbs, while he tries to draw her back in. Quick as a bullet, she pulls away, taking a step back, leaving him dazed. She’s shaking her head and putting a little common sense into her tone. “I’m starving, Butch. –And you are too. Don’t even try to lie!” He goes to open his mouth, but she thumps him on the chest with her knuckles lightly and cuts him off. “AND I want a full stomach before we… continue this conversation we’ve been having.” She’s wondering if he won’t take the hint, but somehow, looking both hopeful and let down all at once, he’s let his hand drop and his mouth run off. “I could _talk_ to you all night long, baby.”

She’s turning her back to him, feeling hot and shy all at once, rolling her eyes at him, sarcasm thick in her voice. “I’ll bet you could. You already **talk** my ear off as it is.” Just when she gets a few steps further into the lake, she feels him catch her by the arm, his voice a lot less confident than it was. “Hey, come on! Don’t run away.” Then with a light tug on her hair she’s complaining at him. “What? What are you tugging on my hair for?” Then like it’s the most obvious suggestion in the world, he’s more telling her than asking her. “Let me fix it for you! Gotta do SOMETHING about it and you know I’m better at it than you.” He’s not lying and she’s not disinterested in spending more time out here.

Without the moon, the stars seemed that much brighter and even though she was starving, she didn’t want this long strange moment to end. She shrugs and nods, tilting her hair up out of his fingers. “Sure. Just don’t take too long.” He’s got the happiest look on his face, rushing out of the water towards their things. She’s left standing there in the pitch black with her thoughts. Her Pipboy’s still casting light from the shore, while his remains on his arm to help him find whatever he’s looking for.

What had she started? That’s what she’s asking herself. The truth is that this started a long time ago. It’s just the first time they’ve acted on it. That she’s acted on it.

She’d already made up her mind and fear wasn’t going to stop her for very much longer.

A few long moments go by and Dogmeat’s resting on the shore with a rather large two headed bass in his mouth, devouring it eagerly. Once again she’s in the lap of her fellow Tunnel Snake, with his hands touching her gently. There’s at least half a bottle of shampoo in her hair and he’s been silently carding his fingers through it, detangling and “fixing”. She thinks it’s more like fussing over it, his thighs encompassing her own like steel pillars. He hasn’t said a word beyond quiet instruction and the tension is eased oddly enough.

Without realizing it, they’d become so used to each other, that it was never really troublesome. It was a comfort to be together. Even after kissing him, there was this sense of peace and familiarity, which came a little too easy. His voice is a soft lull behind her, soothing even, if she’d go so far as to label it. “Alright, lean back. I‘m gonna rinse.” Humming at him she leans back, as he turns his body, and lets her fall back against his right thigh, her hair entirely immersed in the water.

His palm is the only thing keeping her head above the still river shallows, which doesn’t worry her. He’s oddly professional when it comes to his G.O.A.T. enforced profession. His fingertips feel good on her scalp, so good it makes a very unwelcome wave of desire thrum hotly in her belly. It’s so relaxing that it has her closing her eyes, the view of bright stars and dimmed Pipboy glow disappearing behind her eyelids. Her body floats weightless between his legs, his hands more careful than usual.

She makes out a heavy sigh, before his voice and arm lift her back up into a sit up smoothly. “Sit up for me? There ya go. Hardly weigh anything at all.” She opens her eyes to gaze out at the lake, staring out and letting him work without a reply. He’s throwing a question back her that seems familiar. “Have you always been so… little?” His hands have conditioner on them and have begun smoothing out her hair again. His hands are coaxing negative feelings out, that she’d been hiding from him and not really been eager to share. “I blew a man’s head clean off tonight…”

She thinks he doesn’t have anything to say about it at first. When his hands falter a bit, she realizes that he’s just listening, because of what he says next. “…knowing you, he probably deserved it somehow.” She’s not so sure. Regardless of what she does, Butch just seems to see her as the same vault girl who was afraid of the dark and who was always stuck in a book of some kind. Goody-Two-Shoes no matter what she did.

Ironically, she thought it was Butch who’d been blinded by the vault. She’s not sure why she’s talking about it, but the smell was still in her nose. “…his head was melting, on fire… maybe oil spilled, or somebody threw it on him…it could have been either…his clothes were burnt into his skin…whatever was left of them…” She’s lifting her hand up, making a finger gun, and remembering how they’d been drenched in blood only an hour ago. “BANG!” Her shoulders tense at the thought, when Butch’s fingers press into them. He’s been her shoulder to cry on for a long time, but that’s new…the lack of hesitation.

Her hand lowers slowly, the memory playing out again vividly in her head. She feels her shoulders relaxing under Butch’s fingers and only when they do, does he go back to playing with her hair. He chuckles behind her, genuinely full of missed opportunity. “Wish I’d been there to see that!” She shakes her head at his bloodthirsty comment, disapprovingly. Her hands limp in her lap under the waves, Butch’s hands coaxing her eyes shut and her voice feeling distant. “…I’d call it a kindness if it weren’t my fault he was burning to begin with.”

He's speaking low behind her, his tone darker. “Why didn’t you bring me with you?” She knew the answer. It was the same reason why she hadn’t kissed him until tonight. The same fear she’d had since escaping 101, which made her prone to leaving him behind from time to time. Instead, she tries to make it a joke, laughing half-heartedly. “Well then there wouldn’t have been anyone left for me, now would there, Sun Dance?”

If he hears her, he doesn’t comment. Instead he just quietly tells her to, “Lean back.” And once again, she’s leaning against the heat of his chest, only for him to twist around and allow her to fall back into the water in the same practiced motion. She can feel his thigh flexing under her back, the water truly making her weightless, as he leans over her body, to run his fingers through her hair. She forgets the last time they’d been this close.

Sometimes, he would fall asleep with her in his arms on their couch after a long night of drinking. Other’s they’d spend the night in her bedroom, with him un-ironically braiding her hair and her reading a good story out loud to him. There were many of those moments outside of the fighting, the errands for the Brotherhood, and saving the lives of the innocent. Quiet, secret ones that were shared between them and never properly spoken about afterwards. They just seemed to happen- they came so naturally.

She feels his fingers against her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, the sound of his breath strong and even against her mouth. When he kisses her, her eyes flutter open for a moment, only to shut soon after. Her hand reaches for him and this makes the 4th kiss they’ve had in their lives. All within the same night and yet, it doesn’t feel unnatural to her at all. His kiss seems to be different each time.

The first was her own. The 2nd one was full of desperation. The 3rd’s name was lust. This one is softer and much slower. The roughness of his jaw beneath her fingers, the flick of his tongue and her willingness to give in, burn inside her deliciously.

When she parts her lips, they both groan over the implication.

The water is still, the river flowing steadily in front of them, and his tongue is lapping sensually between her lips. When her fingers drift up into his wet and tangled hair, his drift lower, his thumb stroking her pulse point. He pulls away and lingers, out of breath, driving her out of her mind. When she opens her eyes, he’s looking at her with a reverence he’s never shown her so unabashedly. With a slyness about his tone, his words thrill her along with his sharp smile, the stars flickering brightly above the curtain of his dark hair. “See? I’m harmless…”

Then with a glance at her mouth, he’s teasing her, cheerful. “Well, you know. Sorta.” She huffs at him, a half smile on her mouth. Her fingers fall out of his hair and he’s lifting her up again to sit and stare at the seemingly endless sky. When he wraps his arms around her belly from behind, she’s frozen by it. She feels him place a hot kiss on her bare shoulder and the realization that if she doesn’t stop him, that it’s open season, leaves her speaking in a rush. “Sorta shameless.”

She’s placing her hands atop his arms, leaning into him, pleasure tickling at everywhere his skin meets hers. His voice is dark in her ear again like the devil on her shoulder. “You took too long.” She swallows thickly, her mouth feeling dry, because she’s not sure if he means taking too long to kiss him or coming home and her heart’s threatening to slam right out of her chest. She speaks like someone who’s about to jump off a cliff. “I thought it was too much of a risk. That’s why I woke up earlier than you and left.” His arms tighten their hold on her and when his teeth bite into her skin, it’s just too much for her to handle.

She gets a warning to her tone, being harsh. “I kiss you one time and here you are, pushing your luck.” His voice bites her just as wonderfully cruel as his luring touches. “Why the hell did you do that, anyway?” She’s on the edge of something new, this whole night feels like it’s on the edge of something, that unnamable edge dripping into her voice. “Kiss you? Or leave you?” Somehow, he pulls her into him deeper and she is made aware, that he’s hard and heavy, pressed up with spectacular vulgarity against her back bone. Whether he’s meaning to be intimidating or not, he’s succeeding at it, his voice full of unspeakable things. “Both. I’m thinking both…”

Then neither of them speak for a long pause. He’s got his chin on her shoulder and she’s found his fingers with her own, holding him to her unconsciously. She deflates and she feels his stomach flexing behind her, sensitive to her every breath it seemed. She feels the anger drain out of her and with a quiet resolve she speaks her mind. “I kissed you, because I’ve wanted to for a long time…and because…” She trails off, because he should already know the other half.

She doesn’t let him feel upset over her half answer for long, because she gives him something else to be upset about when she says the other piece. “I didn’t bring you along, for the same reason that’s kept me from kissing you…” He’s silent, but she can feel him stirring inside. Jumping to the wrong conclusion, his voice full of hurt. “You still don’t trust me? You joking with me?” She turns her head to look at him, forcefully correcting him. “I’m afraid to lose you, Stupid.” He’s leaning back and there they are in a staring contest, him sporting a mixed up kind of expression.

His eyes widen and his voice is a question, mixed with a front. “So you left without me?” She’s shaking her head and turns her eyes away from his, feeling vulnerable. Weakness seeping out of her voice and making her rub at his knuckles with her fingertips. “I trust you more than anyone. How could you think I don’t?” He’s taking a deep breath and leaning away from her, resting his forehead on her back. He sighs like he’s at a loss for words, still speaking anyway. “You’re scared that I’m going to bite the bullet… that’s why you took off this afternoon?”

Then he tacks on an afterthought, which leaves her skin tingling. “…Is that the reason for it **every** time? I mean, seems like you’ve been hoofing it alone a lot more lately.” She wants to deny it and the truth is, that’s not the only reason she goes out alone at times. She’s sighing, frustrated with herself and with his invasive questioning. “Most of the time? Yes… that’s why I go out alone.” He’s groaning at her, annoyed, because this is not the first time they’ve had a conversation like this. “Oh, come on! When have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?” His arms squeeze her a little tighter, before he goes slack against her back, muttering quietly. “…you’re stopping me from getting the caps **and** the action that I have rightfully earned. Worrying over something that hasn’t even happened yet…”

They both get very quiet then, save for the gnawing, munching sound of Dogmeat still eating his prize. Her voice feels cool against his bruised ego. “…Do you remember…when you got radiation poisoning for the first time?” She feels one of his arms leaving her midsection, his hand brushing her wet hair over her shoulder. His voice sends a chill against the nape of her neck. “Not really. It was a long time ago. I was pretty uh, totally out of it.” She’s turning inside his thighs, to look at his face and his hold loosens, giving her the room to speak with him face to face.

He’s got a softer expression, like he’s sensed that the mood has changed into something far more… somber.

She plants her palm on his thigh, making him startle. She uses him as her balance as she shifts her weight and when she’s finally satisfied with her place in his lap, she tells him a short sad story. “You died…twice.” He looks utterly shocked at the new revelation, a soft, “…oh.” His only word of recognition. She feels colder in her chest remembering, telling him about the root of her deepest worry. “I watched you wake up once…then you seized, I kept the Rad-Away flowing, and Stimmed you… couldn’t sleep until you were walking around again.” She’s tearing up at the memory, his face filling with worry, his eyes darkening.

It seems to dawn on him that he **had** died on her. More than once. Maybe more near deaths than anything, but it wasn’t like the danger wasn’t real. He preferred to know though. He’d rather know if she was here or gone, because then he’d know when he could stop… looking for her figure over the horizon.

He’s thumbing at her cheekbone again, the sweetness of the gesture unlike him and familiar all at once. Whispering, she rubs away the tears with the heel of her palm. “You didn’t remember… but I never forgot.” He’s speechless. Unsure of how to feel. So he tucks her under his chin once more, feeling hot and bothered, spitting the words out like they’re afterthoughts. “I’m still here though aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere either! Not like you do. You just run off where I can’t help you.” She’s laughing derisively with a watery quality to her tone. “If anything you’re the one that needs protection…”

He bristles at that, irritation tainting his words. “You saying I’m not ready for every fight we walk into? Because that’s a load of Brahmin bullshit if you are!” He leans back abruptly, dropping her onto the riverbed clumsily and scrambling up to his feet. She looks up at him and the view is perfectly pornographic, an obvious thickness swollen up beneath his underclothes. When he offers her a hand, he’s flushed in the face and barking at her, ego bruised. “Nobody fucks with this Tunnel Snake without getting the fangs. I could give you at least 3 fights I’ve walked away from these last few days **alone,** that I shouldn’t have.” She’s so startled by his outburst and his rather beautiful physique that she hesitates to take his hand.

He’s still offering it to her, lecturing her. “Maybe everything was new when I first crawled out of the ground, but look at me now, huh? Look what I can do out there! What I’ve already done -I’ve already **made it** out here.” When she takes it, he hauls her up so fast she cries out from the speed. Passionate and loud, he thumps his chest, still grasping her hand tightly, glaring down at her. “You better believe that I can take care of my own!” He’s never looked so… sincerely protective. When he drops her hand his face is agonized, desperate as he makes his point. “But if you’re going to stand there, look me in the eye, and tell me that I don’t know how to protect myself?”

He throws his hands up in the air, gesturing tiredly. “What do I gotta do to prove it to you? Huh? You can’t see it right in front of you? I am **not** the same guy you met at The Rudder.” Interrupting him loudly, she’s correcting him with a scowl. “I never said you weren’t capable in a fight, Butch!” She crosses her arms, finally feeling the chill thanks to the absence of his heat, speaking her peace. “You know how to survive! I’ve watched you become a great survivor –I’m proud of it actually! I even said that tonight!” He looks confused, arguing back at her. “Then why’d you say that, huh? That I can’t hold my own?” She’s not sure how this became a fight, but it has, even if it’s not a terribly violent one. “-I never said you couldn’t! I said you need protection!"

More bickering to her than anything, like an old married couple.

He scoffs at her, giving her a contrary response. “So do you then! You need it too! How about that?” When he says it like that, it does sound a little offensive, and seems to force her petulant inner child out into the open. She stomps her foot, making a splash. “I do not! I’m the one who taught **you** how to hit, well…how to hit anything at all!” In the heat of the moment it all comes rushing out of him and as he struggles for another comeback, he finds a much more pressing issue fly up out of his mouth. “I’m scared that you won’t come back!” The weight of that statement settles into a new cavernous silence that forms the instant the words are spoken.

He’s made hints towards that fear for a longtime, outright saying it as well. Maybe even brought it up a few times, but this time, it’s so much more impactful. Her scowl disintegrates and his angry glare, fills with embarrassment. The two of them had forgotten to breathe at one point it seemed, because the two were panting like they’d just jogged a good distance. His eyes flicker to the side and back to her face in a panic, his words stilted and hot. “…All the **waiting**! The not knowing! Like you don’t know how that feels?” 

When his hands fall onto her shoulders, he’s still yelling but the words don’t match the emotion he’s using to express them. “You just leave all the time! Like it’s just a –a walk to the atrium!” His expression starts melting into something akin to sadness, while she stands there watching with a growing affection towards him. She knew he shared the same fears about loss of life as she did. What she didn’t account for was just how much it had been eating away at him in the last month. Butch had been very expressive, emotional, and over all explosive his whole life.

So when he starts tearing up on her, she can’t help but catch the sorrow, his voice breaking up on her. “It’s…it’s the worst! It’s torture! It’s…it’s downright, **selfish**! At least if I’m with you I… I could **do** something!” She’s crying with him, feeling a little emotional herself, apologizing. “Then…Then I –I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you worried that much!” With a loud outburst he’s jostling her shoulders, looking at her like she’s an idiot. “Of course I worry! I worry about you all the time, same as you do! Tunnel Snakes look out for each other! It’s- It’s in our CODE!” She can’t help smiling, watching him rub the tears out of his eyes roughly. She steps forward, wraps her arms around him in a very large hug and says something that feels right. “Alright, alright! You’re making me cry! Tunnel Snakes, rule! Ok?”

Somehow, he’s the only person she would ever want to hug. The only person she can be even a bit affectionate with. His face shouldn’t look so surprised, but when he picks her up off the ground, he’s still glaring at the stars. “Damn right we do!” She’s conflicted inside of herself. Comforting him, taking care of him… it was a part of her and without even noticing, it had become a part of him too. She’s a foot off the ground, feeling her feet dangling out of the water and becoming aware of how naked they both are again.

She feels tired…hungry too.

She squeezes his shoulders, one hand in his hair and the other splayed out across the back of his neck. Her smile falls and once again apprehension grips her tight. His arms still feel safe and she still knows that there’s never anyway **safe** out this Wasteland of a world. Her voice is small and the change is something he seems to get stuck on. “You know that it would kill me… losing you would end me. You know that right?” He’s letting her down really slow, her body dragging against him and her arms losing their hold.

He doesn’t let go. He just holds onto her tighter and whispers it, because maybe he doesn’t even want her to hear it. “…it hurts…when I don’t know if you’re coming back…’course I know…” She’s listening to his heartbeat, feeling a desire to run. If she doesn’t, she’ll stay like this forever. Thankfully, with her ear pressed so close to him, it’s easy to hear his stomach rebelling.

She really only ever really smiles when he’s around and he can hear the smile against his flesh. “…have you been starving this whole time?” He’s stuttering, his fingers pressing into her back tighter, trying to make an excuse to stay longer. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…” His stomach’s betraying him and she’s pulling away, cementing a calm look onto her face, still smiling in her voice. “We should head back to camp. Unlike you, I’ve been starving since I walked into the valley.” His hands linger, his features full of innocent things that don’t match up with his rugged features. She pushes him gently, breaking away from him, her voice steadier than she feels, turning her eyes up to look behind him towards a very dark horizon. “I could smell the food from miles away.”

She’s walking away toward the bank, when much to her annoyance, he’s catching her wrist. She expects him to tell her to wait, but when she looks back from the bank, his face is stone. Staring. Silent. She takes one look at those constant, grasping, solid fingers of his and says, “…fear keeps me from a lot of things…I just don’t tell you about it.”

She tugs her arm out of his grasp, walking to the dry bank, his voice still dressed up in that tone of vulnerability. “Is that you’re way of telling me you’re going to start talking more and leaving less?” She pauses, looking back at him, his words childish, impudent. “Because it better be.” She’s sighing, looking up at the stars for resolve, her shoulders rising up with rigid stiffness. She hates it when he’s right about something. Her voice is just as stiff as her bare shoulders are. “…I’ll try being braver for you…and take more risks…since it’s been so hard on you…”

Like a flip of a switch, his voice is a wicked purr of a laugh. “That’s not the only thing that’s gotten harder for me.” She shakes her head, laughs and before she can think about it, she’s whipped her ruined, wet bra off and grinning to herself. She speaks up to still her beating heart. “You think I couldn’t tell? Must you point it out?” She hears him leaving the water, barking at him, her good humor swallowed up by panic. “-Don’t look!” She’s snatching up her boots and her Pipboy as she goes, rushing for the clothes he brought for her, hearing him laughing again.

She’s fumbling with his old shirt, her breasts chilled from the night air, far away enough from the light of the Pipboy’s to have some form of privacy. He pipes up, just as the pleasantly dry fabric clears her head. “Can I touch you instead?” He’s far away and part of her is both thankful and regretful of that fact. She’s turns to face him, finding him standing there, the outline of his face, smug in the Pipboy’s light. Her smile falls, stern with him in the way she answers. “Ask me again when we’re both fully dressed.” His laughter is loud and warm, spreading to her skin as she fumbles her legs out of her disgusting underwear and into the pleasantly clean fabric pants, he’d been conscience enough to provide her.

A wet, slap of something, startles her a bit. When she looks to where the noise came from, her eyebrows rise up high. Butch was never subtle and the sight of his soaking wet Vault-Tec issued briefs, was as clear a message as any. Unable to stop herself she looks up to see where he’s standing and sure enough, he’s still several feet in the water. Buck naked and illuminated deliciously in seducing shadows, burly and brawny, looking some kind of boyish and some kind of beautiful.

Her eyes fall between his thighs, just as his tone, starts to remind her of the bully she used to know. “Hey, Nosebleed!” Her eyes jerk right back to his face, her nervous hands bunching up the hem of his t-shirt. She can see his toothy smile, hear the joke at her expense in the way he trails off. “…made you look.” She doesn’t register it till the words hit her right where home is. He’s such a child.

It makes her turn her back on him as fast as she can. She’s embarrassed in a way only he can force and her face is so hot, her flighty reply must surely be steam escaping her. “Damn it, Deloria!” She hears him laughing, even as she’s strapping on her Pipboy, missing a few buckles and having to redo it. She’s shaking her head, a mean, flustered smile accompanying her jerky movements. “You- just stand over there! FAR over there!” He’s snickering, probably holding his sides behind her, not that she’s going to chance a look.

Clear as day, she hears him say something shocking, his voice a smokescreen of humor, disguising something terrifyingly genuine. “…You’re the one who started it.” Her body moves to look back at him, like she wants to read his face. He can only hide so much from her and his expression usually gives him away. All she sees, is the backs of his thighs and Dogmeat barreling back into the river to dive after him. She waits, only leaving once he comes back up for air, now preoccupied with their dog.

His laughter coaxes her into smiling again.

She wonders how things are going to change between them. Thinks about what it felt like to kiss him… how it was much more than just a kiss. Her deft fingers are checking her Pipboy strap, making sure it’s on properly, dimming the light. She’s made her name, her life on being fearless. Somehow though, she could still be braver.

Butch had found a way to surprise her, yet again.

* * *

A quiet collection of dying embers, sparks brightly in the ashes of their fire pit. The foggy night air is still permeated with the smells of smoke and stew. Barely an orange glow to light up the wanderers’ hands, 2 empty bowls stacked neatly beside an empty covered pot, the quiet endless night, somehow comfortable. Homey even. Her hair is still slightly damp, clean and loose around her shoulders.

Butch sits with his legs crossed, the two of them on the packed earth, side by side, full from a very large meal. The only sound to break the quiet, is Dogmeat’s quiet snoring across from them. The dog’s fur is a dark, shaggy mass, barely discernable with the lack of significant firelight. No moon, only the bright pin pricks of stars to give them direction. They sit, with a distinct kind of separation between them, made by her.

She reaches over behind them, fetching a clean hand towel from his canvas bag. They’ve piled their bags in one spot, leaning against the rocks, their spoils and their supplies at their backs. She takes it to her hair, squeezing and drying, taking glances at her companion all the while. There’s something softer about him, his hair usually perfect and greased up, is now a mass of loose curls, black enough to be darker than the horizon beyond him. He stands out like a sore thumb to her, his t-shirt clinging to his body, reminding her of the sculptured flesh lurking beneath it.

He’s oblivious, staring off past the dying fire. She watches him, as he turns to take off his Pipboy. She’s caught up in the fire again, staring at the still lightly cracking wood. The gentle lull of Billie Holiday, starts to croon from his Pipboy and the quiet becomes heavier somehow. She breaks the silence speaking with a disgruntled kind of motion, still squeezing and fumbling with her hair. “The stew was great. There was a little too much spice in it this time around. But… it was good.”

He scoffs, looking over to the bottle of Paprika, seemingly glaring at him from his leather sack. His voice curls around her heart like dancing serpents. “You’re real picky. For somebody who can’t cook for shit.” Her hands still, as she drops the towel into her lap and reaches over to the left for her Pipboy. Still in the same place, his voice presses at her. “…I spoil you don’t I, Angel?” Somehow, it just cements her silence.

She looks up, expecting to find him still staring off into the darkness. His eyes startle her, the lack of a smile on his mouth, twisting her up into knots. She wonders if her face looks just as heated, haunting, and impassioned. Tearing her eyes away, unable to answer him and it’s unbearable to keep the eye contact. She goes back to her Pipboy, flipping through the screens on it, focused on her notes intently.

With one splash of shitty vodka, the dying orange embers are replaced by a brilliant fire once more. Butch has taken up his Toothpick, his own manufactured form of shaving cream, and a decently sized chunk of broken mirror. He sits parallel to the Cliffside with his jaw tilted toward the firelight, the mirror propped up on the rock, which had once been his seat. Everything was so versatile. The ground could be your road, your table, and your bed all at once.

He swipes at his jaw, smooth skin left in the wake of disappearing white and halfway through, he pauses to look at her. He thinks to himself, _‘You’re a pretty quick change too, aren’t you?’_ From best friends to paramours all in one moment. She’s lost in something, scrolling through that Pipboy of hers with a grim expression on her face. He turns back to his task, asking her blindly. “…Whatcha looking at over there?” Her eyes haven’t left the screen and her fingers keep touching the dials like they’re breakable.

They’d set out for one reason and one reason only. To liberate slaves of their collars and investigate a straggling branch of Slavers, who’d crawled out of the Paradise Falls massacre by the skin of their teeth. She and Butch had spent the last 3 days as undercover buyers at the market. The horrors they’d seen, weren’t new. While her partner had gritted his teeth and charmed a large portion of the Slavers at the gambling tables, she’d been making an Intel dossier.

She counted how many guns, big and small, as well as every watchtower. How many Slavers, mercs, and caravans just passing through. She counted slaves, men, women, and children. The excessive notes she’d taken held much heavier weight to them after tonight. Lives saved, lives lost, and those injured, were among her many lines of names and numbers.

Butch had gathered his fair share of information as well and it was only thanks to his sharp eyes, that she’d been able to find a stealthy way into the slave market pens so quickly. While he lost at cards and played the big money, big mouthed mark, she’d slowly began to speak to the slaves around the camp, simply biding their time. Bethany and Marcus, were among the dead, two of the younger slaves who used to work at the foundry, which the Slavers had occupied. Overall, those two had been the reason that the rest of them, had been able to plant the bombs so well. They had known where all the weapons caches were, seen where all the patrols would go.

Those two, had been plotting violence for a very long time.

That night, the couple hadn’t even mentioned it to her. They hadn’t said a word to her and that seemed to haunt her a little, because she was usually good at reading strangers. The original plan was that a group of 20 slaves would strap on some Stealth Boys, and have looted the Slaver’s supplies before anyone was the wiser. The explosives were already in place, when the spectacle took flight. They’d both waited till the Leader of the Slave Operation was drunk and at the center of the camp, because that was Fire-Gut’s routine every Friday Night.

Then they’d both walked up hand in hand like they were free again. She couldn’t stop them without giving herself away too soon. So she sat powerless in the dark from the rooftop of one of the shops. Those two young lovers, poured a bucket of oil onto him and stabbed him in the belly with his own Shish-Ka-Bob. Bethany stabbed while Marcus poured.

Evangeline had watched the man catch fire, screaming like a growling, shrieking creature more a beast than a man. She watched the rest of the slavers swarm the scene like cazadors, gunning them all down, even their leader Fire-Gut alongside them. For 3 days, she and Butch had ate, slept, and even laughed with the slavers. But in the night? For 3 long nights, they’d cried, schemed, and encouraged a new rebellion in the pens.

The slaves had been distrustful of them both. For good reason. For one, they were outsiders and strangers. For another, they had watched Butch playing cards with the cruelest of the bunch. She wasn’t much better, being forced to make a few grandstanding gestures, by treating a few of the slaves around their food tent less than kindly.

In the slaves’ eyes, they were no better than their current masters. That was the reception they’d had in the warehouse, as they addressed at least 200 or more dirty and emaciated faces. That is, until Butch started talking. He climbed onto the shell of an old vehicle and bellowed loudly, that she’d been the one who’d burned Paradise down. He told them to fight, inspiring them with his stubborn, angry way of proclaiming injustice.

Bright eyed rebellion in his eyes, she sometimes forgot, that he’d built his whole life on the idea of rebelling against the status quo. He stood for freedom in a way, which even surpassed her own sense of justice at times. He was enraged by it and willing to do whatever it took to make his life his own. Butch detested slavery, down to his very bones. She saw the slaves listening to him, like he was the light in the dark they’d been waiting for and she let him have the reins.

He won the room with a wild and angry speech that ended on, “-So let’s burn ‘em to the ground! Burn it all! BRING HELL TO THEM LIKE THOSE BASTARDS HAVE IT COMING TO THEM!” The murmuring and distrust had erupted into applause and Butch had been out of breath, looking ready to set fire to the camp as soon as they left the pens. Things quieted down after that and once they had their foot in the door, they began learning the names of the people they were attempting to set free.  
  
Marcus was the first to open up to her about how he got there. He had been a large, burly man who had about 4 inches on Butch in height. His skin was dark and his face was branded with a symbol she didn’t recognize. She’d seen him around the camp in the day, hauling metal beams into the foundry, sweating and looking like an animal put to the plow. His beard and hair were black as an oil slick in the sunlight and he had looked at her with such hatred in his eyes during the first day, that she had, had to know the man.

The long story short of Marcus’ life, was that he and Beth were part of a peaceful Nomadic people. They’d left Oasis to plant their seeds in a new place, a new hope for the green to come back into the world. Their only son died in the raid, while the village burned and the slavers either collared, killed or raped their friends and family. Beth was violated right before his eyes and as it was happening, the man who’d collared him, had said, “Flowers like her sure look a lot better, when they’re on fire.”

Marcus was only 2 years younger than she was. Only a 2 year difference and yet, in the darkness of that concrete building, with a chill in the air and a lack of a source of warmth, she saw pain worth lifetimes in the man. The pens had been cold, dark, and cruel. The warehouse creaked like deathclaws were scratching the walls during the summer heat, when the metal would expand. In contrast, there were comfortable beds in all the open buildings and all around the slaver tents, warmth and stolen wealth, hoarded by the evil and underserving alike.

She had seen the way people acted when left to their own devices and for the most part, it was ugly. People were ugly. Her eyes catch the crossed out names on her screen, Bethany and Marcus. Butch’s voice snaps her back to the fire burning right before her eyes, instead of the fires lurking inside her mind. “…Hey? You deaf?” She looks up at him and he’s still working on his face slowly, all pretty shadows and masculine heat.

He reiterates, flicking shaving cream near her to get her attention. “…I asked you what you’re looking at over there.” Her chest aches her voice lost in the many days they’d spent planning what had happened tonight. “Loss of life.” She hears his knife scraping against his skin pause, the sound of shaving cream being flicked onto the dirt farther away, following after the fact.

She looks back to the names and the numbers.

She doesn’t have to look up to see his concern. She hears it when he speaks from over her shoulder. “…You saved more I’m betting….even without me to watch your back.” She’s going over the plan in her mind again, wondering if she should have brought him along, hearing him needling her to open up to him in the process. “What are you complaining for? You won the war didn’t ya?” There’s a bitterness to his tone, his bare feet digging into the dirt heavily. She finds the layout of the city block in the dossier file on her Pipboy, remembering Marcus and Bethany’s bullet filled bodies, raising her voice at him. “I’m just wondering if we could have set the bombs off sooner.”

The battle had started in the late afternoon, lasting far into the night. A flick of his wrist, another line of shaving cream in the dirt, his words pensive. “…You really want to bring this up after ditching me?” She looks over at him and watches him shaving with interest, before biting her lip. Her thoughts wonder to his mouth again, before her voice softens. “…you helped them too. I watched you every moment I could…you were… amazing.” She hears him curse and when she looks up, he’s got a tiny nick on his jaw, a tiny bubble of red on his flesh. His somewhat bratty reply, accompanies him reaching for a bandage out of his leather sack. “Sounds to me like you did just fine without me…”

Nursing his wound and halfway through shaving, his eyes flick over to hers and she’s lowering her arm into her lap, to stare at him. He starts to talk sweetly at her, the longer he stares. “…what do you look so sad about?” She hears Fire-Gut’s screams echoing in her memory, looking past Butch’s eyes and into his soul. She can’t explain why her eyes are watering, or this sudden emotion, but when she opens her mouth, there’s truth and guilt spilling out. “You’re not upset too?” He starts to glare at her, anger lurking beneath the surface, but about what, she’s not sure.

Then his face turns gentle and he laughs, surprising her. What he says leaves her feeling heavy. “Wouldn’t you be?” The air is thick with disappointment and as he dabs at his cut, he takes the cloth and with thoughts behind his eyes, stares at the little drops of red on the ratty grey fabric. He talks to the wall, stuck in his own head. “It wasn’t just the caps or the action you stole from me this time.” He shrugs and sighs, wiping the shaving cream off his switchblade with the bandage, muttering at her. “…that fight was **mine.** Those people? I could understand them- that crazy, kill for it kinda drive, you know?” He’s tossing the bandage into the fire, sitting a little taller as he talks. “That boxed in feeling. Like you’re trapped? No choice and no future, stuck in a cage … I deserved to be there. I **earned** that fight.”  
  
The bandage goes up with a crackle in seconds drawing her eyes to the sparks. She’s brushing her hair behind her ear, apologizing to him. “…I’m sorry for being selfish.” Another thwap of shaving cream hits the dirt, Butch’s voice getting higher, deceivingly nonchalant. “Eh, don’t be…” She raises her eyebrow, waiting for more. He’s swiping his clean blade against his cheek, something sweet rising up out of the fire from the burning fabric, like smoked peaches.

His voice matches the sweetness of it. “…It’s old news as far as the Butch-man’s concerned.” She’s not sure if she has the heart to bring it up to him, but if not him, then who? She’s thumbing Marcus’ name while she says it. “Alright, **Butch-man**. If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I believe you.” Butch laughs, the sound lacking anything bitter at all in it. In fact his voice is kind and that hurts worse than if he was holding a grudge about everything that had happened. “…what happened to trust, huh?”

She looks at him, bothered and flighty, about to yell at him. “I already told you I do trust-“He cuts in with a quiet word that steals all her thunder. “-Then come here ‘n sit my lap and cry like a baby. I know you want to.” He finishes shaving with one final swipe of his blade, the last flick of shaving cream like the sound of a heavy door falling open again. Her Pipboy slides out of her lap and her tongue feels tied when she tries to answer him sarcastically. “Oh sure- yeah. I’ll just fall apart… yeah ok, Butch… Let me just do that for you.” His expression looks taken aback.

Red heat starts spreading up his neck and he’s scowling at her, like he’s calling her a liar without breathing the word out loud. He’s blushing. His hands are fumbling in his bag looking for a towel, grumbling at her, embarrassment leaking into his tone. “…watch it with that attitude of yours, Smart Mouth. I was just offering.” When she gets up, she’s stuttering angrily, her towel in hand and her eyes stuck on his face. “What? What do I look like to you? Huh? Sad?” He’s accosted by her standing over him frozen in place by her presence and feeling oddly small again.

She’s breathing too hard and handing him her damp towel, looking down at him with a wild expression. Her blue eyes are blown wide with unshed tears and the breeze makes her shiver. The sweet smell of her body greets him and the vulnerable way her hand shakes, breaks his heart in ways he didn’t realize could happen so easily. Her voice is small, weak for him. “…Does it feel good being right?” She holds out her hand, offering to him something he needs.

This just feels like how it is in every way between them. She’s crying and offering him something he needs, while he’s on the floor at her feet ready to beg her for it. He reaches for the towel and grabs her wrist instead. His skin feels like it’s burning and his face is sticky from a fresh shave, but all he wants to do is hold her. She crumbles against him with a shattered sob and he wants to kill whoever made her cry.

He’d have to scratch that thought though, because he was at the top of that list for a very long time. Her hair’s damp and pretty under his chin, the feel of her body sprawled out against him, fills him with fear. Afraid to break her or push her away, even to pull her closer, there’s a gnawing fear inside him, which drives him to clutch at her tightly. All he can do is hold onto her. He catches her with a grunt and squeezes her closer, after she settles there against his chest.  
  
Then she cries like somebody died and he knows that’s the truth of it. People died tonight and he didn’t get to be there for it. All he gets to see is the aftermath and as annoyed as he is by being left behind, he’s a mess whenever she cries like this. Hushing her softly, like he used to do so long ago for his mother after too many shots. “Hey, hey, Baby…shh…you’re ok… Butch’s got you… he’s got you…” Her breath is hot and labored where his shirt meets his throat, her voice lost in the emotions churning within. “I never meant to hurt you! I didn’t want to leave you!”

He’s swallowing thickly, understanding coming too easy for him. Knowing somebody for so long, made them apart of you. You started thinking like them after too long. He sighs, with his fingers curled around the soft nape of her neck, talking gently like someone trying to coax a cat out of a sinkhole. “I know…I get it, I know. –But you were scared, right?” The inflections in his voice are tender, higher pitched in a way which reveals, that only for such a precious person, would he talk so sweetly.

Blubbering and ugly, she’s sobbing and feeling foolish, hysterical, caught up in his strength and the smell of his aftershave. “I was! I am!” His voice makes her heart break and her hands tighten their hold on his shirt. “…who died, huh? Come on… you can tell me.” She thinks about Marcus and Bethany, the slavers named or unnamed in her mind. Then her father, Jonas, even Autumn, and every different stranger, enemy or otherwise in a long dead war that she’d been forced to fight. She quiets, huffing and glaring into Butch’s chest, too tired and weakened not to let the pain go, she whispers the words helplessly. “…everybody…everybody I love…”  
  
Something snaps her out of it. Hearing her own voice, so pathetic and damn near silent, has her shoving herself up. She’s sniffling and looking at the fire, red faced from the loud angry tears still running over her face, stumbling over the facts as they come pouring from her lips. “-A few, a handful…” Then, hiccupping and with her mind still racing, she corrects herself, sounding terrible. “-Marcus. -And Beth… they walked right into the fire…” She’s not sure how he’s looking at her, but he’s so quiet, that a part of her is just filling the silence, just so she doesn’t have to hear him speak again.

She’s sniffling, attempting to quell her own tears, shoving the heel of her palm into her eyes, rubbing them away. She’s talking to fill the silence, comforted and disturbed by the warmth of his hands all at once. “…they told me to thank you...” She laughs bitterly, angry at them and at herself, her voice rough. “-Then they died.” His fingers tense and his chest rises when he breathes in deep, like he’s pushing something down. She smells the muffled scent of peaches, something spicy and smoke from the fire, wafting into her stuffy nose and sticking to his skin.

She sniffles loudly, trying to breathe and both his hands have caught her by her face, to force her to look at him. He thinks she’s precious. Small. Someone to protect and a piece of him he couldn’t bear to lose. Clearing away tears with the pads of his thumbs, he’s staring at her mouth, with only one thought to comfort her.

He can’t stop himself from dripping honey all over her, speaking like there’s sugar spilling from his mouth. “It’s not **your** fault, Angie. Quit fighting everybody else’s battles.” He’s aware of every soft curve of her body, determined to have her in his lap from now on, every single day that she’ll let him. Her palms glide over the tops of his hands, accepting him. Even listening to him for once, she swallows her tears, struggling to get her head back on right, even as she whispers her agreement. “…Yeah…yeah ok…”He can’t handle it when she loses her cool.

The fire has died once more and there they are in the dark. Quiet. She’s still in his lap and he’s been holding her for what feels like an hour. Without the fire, it is dark. Pitch black even.

It’s like a spell’s been cast. Neither of them have broken it. She’d started crying again, less violently. Then she quieted and he was almost certain that she’d fallen asleep in his arms. The stars are flickering, the orange embers barely alive in the ash of what was once a fire.

He can’t handle the severity of it. Whether he’s serious or joking it doesn’t matter, but she is awake enough to hear him loud and clear. “…want to fool around again?” Her breath catches. Should she be surprised? Outraged?

All she wants to do is laugh, but instead, she holds it back by a thread. Her words are full of laughter however and it’s oozing through them. “…is that all you want now that you can get it?” Much to her dismay, he doesn’t answer her. A long pause goes by, as Dogmeat snorts in his sleep and rolls over in the dirt. His hands had been stationary for a very long time, so when she feels his fingers touch her face, it leaves her shuddering and reeling.

He follows the rise of her cheekbone with the roughness of his fingertips, trailing back to brush her silky clean hair, behind her ear. It’s so dark, she couldn’t see him even if she wanted to and neither of them are wearing their Pipboy’s. The darkness, is suffocating in the most intense way. It has her ears catching his breathing with better attention. His touch feels intensified as well.

His voice is a vulnerable whisper, like thunder in the silence, ragged and crackling. “…I want you, to want me…” Her mouth goes dry and it’s hard to swallow all of a sudden. His lips are brushing against her ear so present and yet so subtle. Turning her head, her heart pounding and her resolve weaker by the moment, she’s breathing against his mouth, speaking quiet fire. “…you don’t have to worry about that.” His voice shifts again, his fingers trembling, weakness in him, like she’s hurting him in the best kind of way. “Never deserved you from the start…” His fingers are tangled up in her hair again, all harsh breath and velvet voice, driving her to the brink. “…Then out of nowhere. Out of the blue…”

Her voice catches in her throat, no words, just a broken hitch of breath. He’s panting like he’ll catch on fire and she’s the oil stoking the burn. She tastes the words on the tip of her tongue, his voice reaching right into her chest and kicking her heart up into her throat. “…You went and did this.” She tastes the bite of his mouth against hers for a fraction of a second after that aching tone of his. Soft and wet, and desperate enough to make her moan like a Gomorrah Whore.

His tongue is wicked, deliberate, lapping between her lips like she’s a rare candy he wants to savor. He breaks away and her brain is scrambled, her body melting, her feelings pouring out, being coaxed out of her with a deviously skilled tongue. “…it’s not that I haven’t felt the same…like you do…” His palm’s spread around her throat in a gentle grip and it’s so possessive, her hands are grasping at his hair just to hold onto her sanity. His palm is so large and hot around her neck that it thrills her terribly and she can hear her own labored breath so loudly, she wants to hide from the shame of it. His other hand’s on the back of her head and his mouth is turned up against the juncture of her throat, his fingers curled around her throat gingerly and scratching gently at her scalp.

Overwhelming her, his voice punctuates the teasing drag of his palm, as he wordlessly askes…threatens to splay his palm over one of her breasts. “…I feel like tearing you apart and putting you back together again.” His confession disturbs her. Actually unnerves her enough to grasp at his wrist, begging him to still his hand without words. Wanting him to keep going despite whatever reasons she might have had to stop him. He’s huffing against her neck, like he’s lost his mind, taking her hand and placing her palm over his chest instead, everything about him, from his lustful touch to the way his voice trembles against her pulse, leaves her reeling from the anticipation of the unknown. “…That’s what you do to me every day…” She gasps, pleasure shocking her as he drags his teeth against her neck, lapping at her flesh, whining at her, like a broken man without a lick of fight in him. “...just by standing too close.”

He’s blushing hot enough, that he’s afraid she can feeling it. She hasn’t said anything, but from the way she’s shaking, he can only guess he’s doing something right. He feels an annoying lump in his throat, when he starts to share difficult things with her, empowered by the dark and the fact that she can’t get a good look at him. “…and it…It really hurts feelin’ like this…” He feels her fingers combing his loose curls back and his heart jumps, because she’d been so still till then. The words get rushed and choppy, her fingers, her skin, her smell- it’s killing him. “-Thought I was alone…in the feeling…”

He’ll die right now, if he has to put a name to it. He can’t see her face, but just picturing the way she’d been looking at him in the water- her thigh presses unintentionally against his throbbing erection and he groans out the truth, in a way that makes it very apparent, that she just set every nerve ending he had into a sex crazed frenzy. “-I don’t know what to do about it…” Her voice is quiet, but it’s still too loud, too breathy and too embarrassing for him when she points out, what he wants to give to her. “…I think you do know…I feel it too… what you want to do to me…” He’s hiding himself in the hollow of her throat and she’s sitting atop his thigh, still so weightless. The thing was, that if this was just about sex then it wouldn’t have been so difficult for him to talk about.

No, no this was the heart of him and he was a coward at his core, so even in the dark, with her fingers on his heart and sending pleasant shivers down his spine, by curling them over his scalp, he couldn’t cope with the words very well. He’s gritting his teeth, knowing she doesn’t get it, speaking feelings and hating himself for being terrible at it. “…I don’t know what to do about it…so I haven’t done a damn thing…” She’s been so quiet, that it’s scaring him. Just listening to him. She’s never listened this good or if she has, it’s been a very long time and he can’t remember it.

Her fingers curl around his heart, spreading them over his chest and drawing his voice back again, his fingers unsure of whether they’d rather stay in her hair or curl around the back of her neck. “I’d die for you…I wouldn’t have died for anyone before-“Her voice is a whisper, his name on her tongue like a prayer as she tries to cut into the stillness of the atmosphere. “-Butch-“Unable to help it, he states his disbelief, genuinely afraid of the changes inside himself. “-Not even my own mother!” He swallows thickly, leaning back as if to look at her, but it’s too dark to make out her face, and he’s tripping over his words, unease sinking into him, her touch and her closeness unable to make it go away. “Ma’ and I always fought, ‘n we had our wars but I…I still loved her- cared about her. Whatever… but not even for her...” Her hands are on his face, searching for him in the dark and she’s got a cool concern painting her tone. “-Deloria.”

His hands are on her shoulder’s, thrilled by how tiny they are, his voice and touch shaking with emotion. “But for you?” He’s shocked, when she swiftly covers his mouth with the weight of her gentle palm. Her voice is both frantic and steady at once. “Don’t say that…” He’s thrown for a loop, hearing fear in her voice and something that doesn’t leave him any room to argue with her. “…Don’t die for me.” He’s opening his mouth, only to get caught up in another kiss from her, light and full of…feelings.

He was hard as a steel beam in his jeans and his heart felt like it was going to explode. Her voice is pleading with him and it makes sense, where the panic had come from, when she says it. “Live for me.” He wants to say that he already does, but when her thigh brushes against the throbbing outline in his pants, which is seeking her out like a fresh cup of water to a starving beggar, that’s not what he ends up saying to her. His voice is gravelly and frustrated, like he can’t tell if she’s doing it on purpose or not. “…you make me crazy. Up the wall.” One kiss and he can’t get enough and it’s not fair that she has all the power here.

She’s heard the unsaid “I love you” from him more than once. She can’t handle hearing it, but she’s too tired to deny it anymore. She’s tired. Emotionally, mentally, and physically spent. She feels her heart swell, cradling his face between her hands and instead of saying that dreaded four letter Word, she says something with the same feeling behind it. “You’re not alone, Butch.”

He answers her with a whimper and another heated kiss, but when she feels one of his hands falling towards her chest, she breaks free to draw a feeble line for herself. Still in his lap, still full of pleasure and aware of the swell against her thigh, she’s breathing him in like he’s the only source of oxygen for miles. “All I want to do is kiss you…” She’s swallowing thickly, feeling silly and yet sure of herself all at once. She grasps his wandering hand and moves it to her hip, whispering against his mouth, unable to make out his reaction in the night. “…that’s all.” She waits for him to push her for more or to complain, but what he gives her is so much worse.

He’s listening to her and begging her for it all at once, manhandling her and moaning the words like a filthy prayer. “I’ll eat up whatever you give me…” She’s straddling his lap and feeling both safe and on the cusp of something dangerous. A sexually charged paradox, with his hands on her hips and his voice quaking with something innocent, yet raw. “…just give me something…” Something. Anything.

Shameless. He was bold and shameless. He was also affectionate and honest. He kissed her and kissed her and that’s all. But that bastard knew what he was doing and she’s not sure who started it, but her hips were in his hands and he kept dragging her over his body, fully clothed.

She could still make out every rugged, hot, solid outline and one thick outline in particular, kept getting pressed up into a very wet spot between them.

He drove them both into such a desperate and aroused state, that it was tortuous. Sweet. Perfect. Enough to bring them both to tears by the end of it. She knew if he slept beside her, she’d break, so after what felt like an eternity of licking at each other’s skin and avoiding the most curious parts of their anatomy, she got off him and forced him into sleeping in his own bedroll…beside her.

He was sulky, angry with her and if she was honest so was she, but she wasn’t ready to face all of this yet. This love. This new relationship, which had seemed to change and yet simultaneously, still be entirely too much the same to her. Conflict was something she was good at, but this internal kind of battle? It was a different ballgame.

When he turned on his side away from her, her heart sank. It felt like a wall he’d begun to build. She had no idea what he was thinking “if” he was even thinking about anything at all. When he turned back around after a few minutes and took her hand in his, she was still awake. She didn’t say a word however, because she was pretty sure…that he had thought she had fallen asleep.

Whatever door she had opened, was staying open and she’d made her peace with it.

He held her hand all through the night and neither of them let go till the morning.

**The End**


End file.
